A Study in Sherlock
by DevonWren
Summary: John's looking over a photo album that he made, containing images of him and Sherlock at different stages in their relationship. Sherlock/John - only a bit, really, but it still remains the point of the story. Please R&R! XXX Edited today


I haven't uploaded anything in a while, and I wrote this this afternoon. I haven't looked over it, but I just wanted to upload it now, so if you could just skim over any errors and I'll see to them later. This is basically all about Photographs and memories, I don't know if you're interested or not. Please review because I feel like I put more than just virtual ink into this one

Recently looked through this, added a few bits. So you might have read it before.

Thanks x

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A Study in Sherlock

It's strange to look at the image of my own face staring back at me. The expression, one that I don't really remember ever coming to pass, but, one that is there nonetheless. My own eyes seem browner, or bluer, possibly. I can't tell which. And there are lines under my eyes that I know I should feel, but don't. Then, it's even stranger to look and see another face staring beside my own, smaller eyes this time, and always the same colour. There are lines on his face that I know I shouldn't feel, but I do; it seems a complicated prospect, one with inexorable gravity.

It's only been seconds since my eyes switched to this face instead of my own, but the shape I now see doesn't feel new. But then, no matter how many new theories, new criminals, new murderers, new bodies, everything is never new with Sherlock. It all feels old, and natural, and expected. Like some bizarre excuse for routine, but with a fantastic twist that means we've both forgotten what to do and when to do it. There are always moments when I know there's something I'm supposed to say, but the words never resurface, as if I've said them ages ago because they're obvious and usual, only this time my mouth spurts something unrelated and stupid and I begin to curse my tepid memory. Then I remember that the memory isn't real, it's just my justification for feeling like I belong.

Sherlock's hair's a little messy in this one. His mouth has curved up to one side and it's as if his eyes only just met the lens in time before the flash went. My own smile mirrors his, only I've always been looking there, immediately determined to gain some irrevocable evidence that we were both there, alive, at the same time, and Sherlock's brain is firmly in his head and only a few feet away from me. It still feels weird to consider the close proximity between myself and so many incredible thoughts, usually of a miniscule enormity that I'm surprised I can't hear them shouting, but the incredulity is comfortable, and their genius feels almost like a blanket – if there's anything around that shouldn't be there, Sherlock will see it.

―

_Sherlock stood in the corner of the room, his head bowed slightly as he surveyed the few ornaments on the coffee table by the wall, pretending to admire the tiny bronze figures of soldiers, but actually wondering why DCI Wilson was so keen to never talk about those wartime experiences. They'd been polished so perfectly compared to the vase that stood beside them that the pride was undeniable, so why..?_

"_You never stop, do you?" there was a familiar voice, and Sherlock's back was suddenly straight and his hands were jammed in his pockets, and a little flutter was ignored in his chest, because Sherlock was never surprised. _

"_Why would I? Stopping won't progress a case,"_

"_You're not on a case, Sherlock; you're at a Police Dinner."John was smiling, laughing even, because this was typical Sherlock. Even now, after such a short amount of time since the phone and Harry Watson and the alcoholic scratches and the taxi driver, typical Sherlock filled him with the warmth of normality that someone riddled with the psychological scars of war subconsciously craved. _

_A black-trimmed head turned to face Dr Watson, and its eyes seemed to have increased in interest, but with a narrow glint that reserved his eagerness to show it, "don't insult my intelligence, John, or I'll have to insult yours,"_

"_You do that anyway," John replied, mock dolefulness cast his eyes to one side and lowered his tone; at this, Sherlock smirked. _

"_Picture! Let's all have a picture together, to commemorate the occasion!" a hand had roughly taken John by the shoulder, a touch that initiated a tingle of retreat in his skin and drawn his attention to something considerably less captivating than his flatmate. Unkempt whiskers poked out the end of a bulbous nose, twitching in the harsh, hushing breaths that had forced themselves into John's personal space , who instinctively turned his own nose away from the sour smell. "Sorry, I don't think we've met," the stout man uttered, presenting a hand and waiting for it to be shook. John decided to ignore Sherlock's suspicious frown, and put it down to some sort of hidden detestation for the inadequacies of the police force._

"_No, we haven't," Dr Watson took the outstretched hand and smiled earnestly, or, at least, as earnestly as he could manage, "my name's Dr John Watson, I'm Sherlock's colleague,"_

"_Ah! Wilson and Watson! I don't doubt we'll get on like a house on fire," laughter bubbled and erupted in his throat, the tremble irritating his stomach and making it bob slightly up and down._

_Beside John, Sherlock sighed impatiently as his 'colleague' was yet again clapped on the back; a tissue was drawn out of a pocket and twirled between fingers only to be returned again three times folded. _

"_Unusual that, though; from what I've heard, I didn't think Mr Holmes, here, was the type to have colleagues!" He laughed again, but neither John nor Sherlock could see any grounds for humour,_

"_And from what I've heard, DCI Wilson, you're not the type to have alcohol problems, nor a dependence on wartime memorabilia to provide a purpose for the depressing gun-shot free silence of the present," Sherlock assumed a stern and hostile glare, at which, John was the one smirking. Wilson visibly stiffened, nodded and hopelessly tried to force another belly-wobbling laugh. _

"_Pictures!" he yelled again, turning away from the two confusing guests. Martin Wilson was a fan of the simpler things in life, no complications, no irksome dinner guests, no soft drinks with tastes and colours that were hard to place. Lestrade approached from behind, a sigh about to hiss through his teeth, directing them towards a camera,_

"_This one's for Sherlock's scrapbook." He muttered, and with John smiling, and Sherlock smirking as he watched the red-faced, whisker-nosed DCI waddle over to the beverage table, a flash went off. _

_That photograph, along with many others, never reached Sherlock's scrapbook as Lestrade had jibed, but did make it to John's._

―

Another glossy memory finds its way into my hands as I turn the page, falling into my lap: a more interesting unveiling for a more interesting photograph. This time it feels heavier on the heart, and the accidental fall of light accents the grey of my own colour in comparison to the blacks and browns of Sherlock. Molly had taken this picture. She'd wanted to keep it for herself.

Sherlock perched on the stool in front of the microscope, his back lined straight with a zealous fascination; the fingers of his nearest hand rested lightly on the base, still delicate in their flat unmoving depiction; his face was plain, other than a barely visible furrowing of his brow that indicated his concentration. He looked statuesque in that image: the perfect representation of Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective; next to him I seemed full of listless motion even in the silence of the photograph's shapes, like I was jittery and ill at ease beside someone who might have been carved in marble. No artist could have captured that crow-like determination in stone.

There'd been sharp word's exchanged, and Molly had dropped the photo off to me the next day, her eyes still red and puffy.

I could see a spark in my own eye that I didn't believe should be visible in an image as unforgiving as this one, almost like the circular glare on a camera lens that you want to get rid of for convention's sake, when, really, you like the atmosphere it creates. There was a smile on the far side of my lips that almost faded to despondency on this side, and an arch in my eyebrow that looked as if I might sigh in impatience, exasperation or contentment. My clothes were regimented and basic, knitwear that Sherlock always looked twice at: I looked old next to his youthful interest that invisibly widened his eyes and pursed his lips slightly tighter, next to his passion. Yet, I understood how that passion was not to be envied, and I still understand it now, how it brought death, destruction, brought out the criminal in potentially everyone. Take James Moriarty – he'd terrified to put an end to Sherlock, he'd turned that blind old woman, God rest her soul, into a suicide bomber.

I can feel a blush creep up my face when I consider, now, why it was that Molly resolved to bring me the picture, accompanied with nothing other than a small slip of paper adorned with two scratchy words '_It's private_'. Of course it is.

It's as if she thought I'd want it. I don't really know if I did or if I do now, only that I have it and don't intend to get rid of it. There have been so many days remarkably similar to that one, so why should I need a visual documentation when all I have to do is give myself over to work? I don't know. Only that these days may be similar, but there's a harrowing difference. Maybe it's because this moment lasts longer this way, and I can imagine being that fly on the wall, and see Sherlock's deductions from the point of view of someone who isn't immediately branded as 'idiot'.

―

_Snap. Sherlock's eyes shot up from his microscope, locking with Molly's before she'd had a chance to put the camera away. No part of his body moved, aside from his neck and head, his hands retaining their positions on the microscope and his ankles crossed beneath the worktop. "You took a photograph."_

"_Yes," she was torn between smiling and acting innocent, and staring at the floor out of shame, "is something wrong with that?" her eyelashes flickered, never quite managing to close, and her head tilted with a juvenile plea that failed to appeal to anyone apart from John. His eyes widened, watching with pity as Molly retreated a few steps, wishing she'd get over whatever it was that made her so nervous and silly so maybe she could adopt just silent and normal. Don't even question. _

"_Of course there's something wrong with that. Why didn't you ask my permission?"_

"_It's just a photograph, Sherlock." John tried to reason, stepping towards the still seated man, a hand upturned itself. _

"_Well, let's all take photographs of Sherlock then! He doesn't mind that he's being involuntarily recorded in trivial parts of history, or that his face has been imprinted on something material, therefore losing its importance." He glanced down at the slide of mud he'd been studying and then his hands came up to reinstate his point, "I prefer to think that it's my actually work that people might remember, not the visual recognition that says, 'Yes, Sherlock Holmes _did some work'_." Sarcasm was thick in those last few words, and John Watson visibly flinched, Sherlock's head dancing side-to-side as he belittled Molly Hooper and thought of nothing but adamant rejection to anything against his specific will. John considered it strangely chilling when Sherlock wasn't being cold and clinical, when he actually proved he was capable of emotion._

"_Sherlock, you've had photo's taken before without someone asking, and you never made this much fuss. You remember the Police Dinner thing?"_

"_Yes, John. My memory might be selective, but I remember two weeks ago. That was a public event, anyway: there was nothing personal about that space, the people there, or what I was doing. Everyone could see anyone, and anyone could see everyone. This space. Here." He prodded an angry finger towards the floor, "this is _private:_ I don't let just _anyone_ in here when I'm working." There was an unnecessary glance up at John after that speech that betrayed knowledge insinuating something wasn't being said. For the first time, Sherlock realised how his reaction might have differed if John had taken the photo; he felt the first flicker of sentimentality that caused teenagers to gather as many identical pictures of themselves and their best friends because, subconsciously, they understood that being young and happy never really lasted very long. Maybe he just remembered that he needed an assistant, or maybe he realised he'd found one, or maybe he realised he'd found a best friend, but was too cold and emotionless to say it out loud. _

_Molly was stood silently in the corner, having retreated entirely out of the beam of white light, perhaps in the hope that Sherlock couldn't see the shame and self-annoyance that was spread across her face. She wanted to ask deeper questions, but was too shy to; she wanted to query why Sherlock's moods were so awful when she was around, or, when he _was_ being kind, it was only to get something from her; she wanted to understand the way his brain worked, but was so scared of it she couldn't bring herself to enquire. She cautiously padded out of the room, leaving a stony silence that was penetrated only by the muffled sobs that bubbled as she briskly walked down the corridor. _

_Sherlock looked incredulously after her, not comprehending her silent but meaningful reaction, only seeing his own side of the story, and feeling mildly violated. Out of the corner of his eye he saw John shake his head, "Was that harsh?" he asked, anticipating the answer, and having the words already spelled out in his mind._

"_Yes, Sherlock; that was harsh."_

―

Mrs Hudson has brought in some tea, taking an interest in that photo after she laid the tray down beside me – one steaming mug of tea and a couple of biscuits. The freshness of the privacy issue made me ask for some space, so she bid her mournful apologies and left, closing the door noiselessly behind her.

Picture three is of myself, head leaned against the inside of a taxi, eyes closed, neck slack, arms limp and fingers bent and awkwardly facing upwards. It's hard not to smile, not because I find it comforting to see my own sleep, although it is a thing one never usually experiences – to see oneself sleep – but because of who took the photograph. A fuzzy pink-brown blur covers one corner and one of my knees, and there's a terrible white glare behind my head. I can almost hear Sherlock's smirking and his relentless excuses that trundled, well-rehearsed, out of his mouth once I queried this image on his arrival back from retrieving the printed copy.

I won't deny the contentment that I can see - and therefore Sherlock must have seen it - hovering on my lips. It has a serenity that could possibly make you believe that when this was taken it wasn't less than twenty-four hours since I'd walked in on someone being murdered, in fact, the serenity engulfed any belief that this sleeping man had witnessed death at all. Perhaps the clumsy photographer was an amused girlfriend, with a typically giddy response to seeing the one she loved sleeping like a baby. Sherlock had called me that when I'd woken up. A baby. You were sleeping like a baby. My hand had wanted to smack him one, but I hadn't thought it was worth the months of childish silent treatment. Now, I see how fortunate that decision was.

―

_A flash went off inside the black taxi, the driver not bothering to turn around, or even look in the mirror, because he'd given weirder people lifts. So what if a dark-haired man wearing a long trench-coat with eyes that never seemed to stop assessing was taking a picture of his sleeping friend? That didn't matter. He'd had drunk geeks with a fetish for humming 'Ode to Joy' doing painful renditions and drumming with blunt pencils on his head-rest; he'd had old men who kept asking for coffee, then, when he didn't give them any, threatened not to let him in their bomb-shelter when the unexploded device in Christchurch went off. Sherlock Holmes paid his fare with generous tips, if only because he couldn't be bothered to wait for change. Apparently it's boring and a waste of time, reckoning that taxis should either be free or paid for by the government. He'd driven this man before. _

_Sherlock leant one elbow on the back of his seat. Looking at the sleeping man with too much intent, he felt his new camera in his pocket that he'd bought after last Thursday's episode with the tips of his fingers. Molly Hooper was a nice girl. Shallow, granted. But nice. Still fawning over the absent Jim, as well as him, all at the same time -a due sign that her affections were no more than skin deep. But he should really thank her, for she'd stirred that little teenager that still existed somewhere inside him with her mistake. Now, maybe he'd decided he was allowed to secretly _feel_ something unnecessary. Every now and then. Now, maybe he'd decided he wanted to have his own collection of things to help him remember, for those times he forgot the sun went round the Earth (or whichever way around it was), or when he forgot that he never once thanked John in such few, accurate words . At least this way he could take the photo, unavoidably forget the occasion, only to later look at the photo and remember it again. It was like an extended library of thought. And, for some reason, the first thing he wanted to put in it was John. He didn't recognise the hypocrisy of his actions as he'd taken the picture, or as he was sat their afterwards, now. Sherlock Holmes didn't understand that sort of thing unless he saw it in others. Every rule he'd ever made to fit the human public into, he was exempt from. And perfectly happy being exempt, as well. _

_Sherlock turned away from his sleeping friend when he felt something move in his chest that made him feel sick and light-headed. He blamed John, because it was John's fault. _

_John Watson was dreaming of Sarah at work. Only, at her seat in Angelo's, there were things he should have noted as unusual: she had dark brown hair - so dark it was a shade of black; she wore a long black coat that splayed out behind her as she walked, or often ran; she had a tailored suit underneath it that made her figure boyish and lean; her chin was longer – bearing a strength she didn't own; her eyes were smaller, apparently always searching for something in everything he did, every minute movement that might draw an eye; her lips were paler and marked by dimples in each corner, they told of something harsher and he could imagine their words as snide, but with wry humour; her hands were larger as she reached across the table, the skin thicker but softer, warmer but colder. In John's dream-world, he hadn't noticed that this was not Sarah at all._

_Sherlock was getting impatient, the ice freezing over the solitary flickering ember of benevolence that was ignited by John's sleeping smile, and he was wishing the doctor would wake up. He's so boring when he's asleep. But a grumble and a flutter of eyelashes and a tart smack of the lips and the ice seemed to melt a bit before it shut off the air from the fire. John's face turned to look at his companion and Sherlock managed to smile. "You were sleeping like a baby," he remarked, and John's teeth clenched inside his mouth, but he seemed reluctant to bite back. _

_We're nearly there, Sherlock had thought of saying, but he thought John would already know. Mycroft will be pleased to see you, he'd nearly said, but he thought John would already know. You're the closest thing I've ever had to a friend, he'd wanted to say, but was certain John had known for months._

―

I don't want to linger on that one for too long, purely because I don't want to sound vain. But, honestly, it isn't me that I want to see in that photograph, it's Sherlock. And, bizarrely, that's who I do see, all the hidden parts of him that only something unexpectedly detached and emotionless could illustrate – and not just his stray index finger.

There's really nothing but humour in these next ones, maybe something more towards the end. Three, one on top of the other, all of the same shade of beige with hints of maybe terracotta, but it could just be a reddy-brown. There are shadows in the corners of all of them, and Sherlock had cursed his inadequacy when he'd got back from Boots having gotten them processed. I suppose that was the first day I really took this whole camera idea of his seriously; after the first load he'd got printed I'd declared it a whim, and then laughed at the pointless snaps and somewhat shrunk back as he'd tried to quickly flick past that previous one, but with this second print-out it seemed more that Sherlock was growing a heart. How could I protest? I'd always been trying to convince him they were valuable investments... I hadn't realised how far they went as distractions.

These snaps went nowhere to proving anything, there were no hidden little messages that John saw in them, only the rapid movement of tiles, concrete and tarmac underfoot as Sherlock had run, camera in hand, accidentally taking numerous photos of the floor. There'd been at least ten, but these were the best (as far as pictures of the ground could have a distinguished 'best' and 'worst'), they were the most pointless and least striking. The rest might have a glimpse of a car tyre or a pedestrian's foot, or, the last one had the lower part of a keyhole as Sherlock had let them in at number 221b. I guess they all tell a story, when in the correct order, but these are the funniest. They're the most _unlike_ Sherlock because of their imperfections... they're lack of focus.

―

"_John, run!" Sherlock yelled behind him, subconsciously unable to fight the urge to attempt to save someone else - especially when that someone was John. He knew the man was quite capable of running of his own accord, (now his psychosomatic limp had miraculously evaporated. But then, Sherlock knew himself to be a miracle) but that sickness he remembered from the taxi had danced across his chest again and he'd felt the need, that and his eyes were always trying to look back. He could have dropped the camera there and then, knowing that it wasn't necessary to keep it with him, it would only weigh him down and distract him – and he hated distractions – but there were so many things in its memory card that he didn't want to lose, so many useless memories that three months ago he would have been fine forgetting and then never remembering. But now he thought the bleep of deletion or the crack of plastic against tarmac might just echo the tearing of a tissue he'd never known had the capacity to make a sound before he'd met Dr John Watson._

'_Memory card' was such an appropriate name. _

_Lestrade was waiting outside the underpass, jittery at the sound of gunfire, but sighing in relief as he saw Sherlock Holmes emerge, shortly followed by a gasping John Watson. The consulting detective didn't stop, he didn't want to run through the deductions he'd assumed in order to find the right location, he didn't want a shock blanket, he didn't want John to have a shock blanket that wasn't accompanied by a mug of tea that Sherlock had made himself, for the first time ever. And he knew that John would carry on running after him even if Lestrade told him to stop, because that's what friends were like. Sherlock knew that's what friends were like not because he'd seen them, and studied them, but because he had one, and he was one._

_He was conscious of his finger twitching over the button on the top of the camera, and knew he'd have a number of shots he really didn't need, but together he and John could laugh about it later. Or John could laugh about it later alone. The empty shots would be metaphorical representations of all the useless things he'd been filling his head with recently: the image of John sleeping that had stayed in his mind even when he'd reasoned that his mental hard-drive was nearly full; the sound of a second pair of footsteps as he walked down the pavement, over floorboards, and a second set of breaths; and the Earth goes round the Sun: if his head could fit it all in, why couldn't his camera? _

"_Sherlock, why are we still running?" the voice was jagged and tired due to physical exertion, and Sherlock didn't bother answering – it wouldn't have made an ounce of difference. _

_For some reason they carried on running through the city, down streets, across roads, past shops._

_And they're still running._

_John's legs don't feel like they're attached to him anymore, they're just moving because that's the last order he gave them. Lestrade's legs aren't troubled enough to begin chasing after them because he _never_ gave the order. He never does. Sherlock's barely within the law, but he pretends not to care, and he doesn't let anyone else care either. It irritates him that John seems to know, to feel it, to see it, to say things about it but accept it. The drugs that used to happen, the unorthodox means by which information was and is acquired, the people that sometimes got killed: none of it goes further than a five minute dissent between them. Lestrade knows that if he opens his mouth to talk about it, it might be the end of everything Sherlock gives him, and therefore, the end of Lestrade as well. _

_Watson nearly crashes into Holmes as he abruptly stopped outside 221b Baker Street, Sherlock's back inches from his chest, and he can feel the heat of the escape. Sherlock's in the house before he can take a further breath and his eyes dart to the clock on the wall. "That's record time!" he remarks with scientific joy and climbs up the stairs, one at a time in a steady rhythm that's slower than his heart. John laughs to himself and wonders what those words could mean, but doesn't bother asking. "We're going to have some nasty shots on this film," Sherlock calls down when he reaches the landing, lifting the faithful camera up and beaming with something that looks a bit like pride. John's heart swells for some reason, but he won't even consider that it might be pleasure over some stupid set of photographs that might be full of blood or tarmac or bullets or smoke, because he knows immediately that that's not the truth. _

_In the flat, Sherlock's hand takes too long to withdraw after handing John his tea, and both hands rest for too long on John's shoulders when he gives him the shock blanket he'd thought of. John doesn't say anything because he doesn't mind. To him, it seems like a silent message, a thank you for making me human, or a thank you for just being alive because I'd go insane without you. It takes a few swigs of tea to stop his voice telling Sherlock that he's still insane, forgetting that it wouldn't even make sense without that imaginary gratitude. Sherlock sits beside him on the sofa and John swivels so he can look at him closer. "I'm not in shock,"_

"_No, but you're cold." Sherlock smiles, experiencing something that takes him by surprise and riddles knots into his stomach. Something that would make it feel normal to kiss the guy now, even if that's not the done thing. It seems almost a relief when he gets up and walks into the kitchen, wondering how many cows' brains he's got left in the freezer._

―

Pictures of nothing that seem to tell everything a million times over. All of the things I'd thought about before that occasion were falling together, only to reveal themselves to be a puzzle I'll never get to complete. It doesn't matter that on that day nothing happened, there were no life changing words, no brilliant revelations, no whispered I love you's that take one person by surprise. There weren't many words that would even indicate we were more than friends. Because, at that point, we _were_ just friends.

Only, that day had been the first time I'd been the one to do the deducing, satisfying myself in the knowledge that Sherlock had a blind spot; I'd been the one to read another person, and, call it vanity, if you want, but I saw that he cared about me more than he let on. Whether he saw it in my eyes, reflected or singular, I don't know. But at the instant he opened the freezer and muttered a few nonsense words about brain's, I knew that before we each went to our separate bedrooms that night, I would have told him how I felt, and then I would have told him how he felt and that it was okay not to be made of ice. To which he laughed, and chose not to reply with a quip or a belittling comment, only a kiss that I'd never considered.

With Sherlock it was never a brilliant revelation, there was never an immediate attraction, just a hand on the small of our respective backs that pushed us together, and subsequently the thoughts that then spiralled imperceptibly out of control. Maybe the unnoticeable change between pronouns – a 'we' to an 'I' here and there, but even that transgression had happened as long ago as the day we'd moved in together.

I have begun to believe that that had been the only possible outcome; there was never anything else that I looked at him with other than a deep underlying love that made sense even though I didn't fall in love with men, and there was never anything else that he looked at me with, only that he didn't recognise it, and for too many wasted days and weeks and months, neither did I.

It pains me to do it. I know. But it must be done. The next few pages I skip hurriedly, praying not to glance for a second on any of the smiles and happiness because I'm sick of it. Then there's page 15. Page 15. That's all the pages I ever had enough to fill. Page 15. That's the waterfall, there, white and conclusive. I'd never thought anything or anyone would be a match for Sherlock Holmes: his mind was too brilliant to be diminished in such a short amount of time. But then there was Jim. Then there was the waterfall. Then there was nothing other than these memories that Sherlock had just wanted to keep so he could only forget them, and then blissfully remember them. Only, now, it's just me who remembers and just him who forgets.

I glance up at the skull on the mantelpiece that I haven't dared to touch; the laptop drained of power on the desk, but still open as if in use; the bullet holes in the walls I haven't allowed to be patched up or filled in; and the yellow smiley face that's always mocking me. Mocking me because Sherlock was always talking about boredom, being bored and time wasting, and now I seem to have so much left that I can't help but suffer from boredom and waste my time.

I don't want to sip the tea that Mrs Hudson brought up, or eat the biscuits. Like Sherlock said, it's only transport.

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Hope you enjoyed it, the last line is pants though, sorry, and only makes sense if you've seen the pilot episode.

Please Review! X


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